Chapter 142: Chapter 142
Landon finally cleared his throat, and broke the silence. He let out what he had been meaining to say for years. "Before you speak like a Saint, and like a father who was supposed to have awards for being the best, remember I didn’t ask you for this life. Those children you sold for money also have parents. Parents who still weep for them."
The words slashed clean through the silence of the room, leaving Ronan’s chest tight and his breathing heavy.
He stared at his son for a long time. He didn’t blink, nor moved. He just stared. His fingers curled slowly against his knees, and his jaw locked so hard it ached.
The lamp’s dim glow cast shadows across Landon’s face, sharpening the sneer, the defiance, and the mockery expression he wore.
The boy was too calm for the words he had just thrown.
Ronan inhaled sharply through his nose, the sound was loud in the suffocating quiet.
"Watch your mouth," he said finally, his voice low. It wasn’t a threat, not yet. It was just a warning. For now.
Landon leaned back, his glass of wine dangling carelessly between his fingers, as his smirk widened. "Or what?" His tone was dripping in arrogance, like he had cornered his own father in his own house. "You’ll remind me you’re my father? Or worse, you’ll hit me like you did with mum when she sometimes overstep with her questions? Go ahead, Dad. Do it. Show me what makes you better than the men you claim to hate."
Ronan’s shoulders tensed. For a moment, he looked every inch like he would get up and do it. His fists curled. His eyes darkened. But he didn’t move. He sat there, his chest rising and falling. He fought desperately, ad he held back every violent boiling under his skin.
"I didn’t raise you for this," Ronan said finally, his tone quiet but sharp.
Landon laughed. His laugh came out bitter, and hallow. "You didn’t raise me at all."
The air thickened. Ronan blinked once, slowly, as though Landon had slapped him physically.
His lips parted, but nothing came out. His throat was dry, and his words stuck like stones.
Landon seized the silence like a weapon. He leaned forward now, elbows resting on his knees, his smile fading into something colder. "You sent Mum away with no explanation, like she was nothing. You bent your neck for Dominic like he was king. You never looked me in the eye long enough to notice when I stopped being a boy and became... this." He gestured at himself, almost laughing. "And now you sit there, trying to act like a father. Like a man with the right to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. No, Dad. You lost that right a long time ago."
Ronan’s jaw flexed. He wanted to defend himself, but every sentence felt like a trap. Every word his son spat was laced with truth and venom both.
"You think I wanted to be this way?" Landon continued, voice rising. "You think I enjoy hating Celeste for choosing him over me, or you think I enjoyed betting on her, and only realized that I loved her after she was gone? You think I enjoy despising you for kneeling at Dominic’s feet like a lapdog?" His voice cracked then, just slightly, betraying the venom for what it was. He was hurt, deep and old. "Do you know what it’s like, Dad? To feel invisible in your own house? To watch your father stand for everyone else, but never for you?"
Ronan’s chest tightened. His hand lifted to his face, dragging down slowly. He wanted to say something, or anything, but the weight pressing on his chest was unbearable.
He dropped his hand and finally looked straight at his son. "You don’t understand what it takes to survive," he said, low, and steady, with each word deliberate. "You sit here, blaming me for sins you can’t even begin to fathom. You sip wine you never worked for, under a roof built with blood you never shed, and you dare call me weak." His voice deepened, the anger seeping in now. "You don’t know sacrifice. You don’t know what it means to carry another man’s life in your hands and still live with the cost of it every single day. You don’t know, Landon."
Landon chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "And you think that excuses it? You think having excuses makes you a good man? No, Dad. It makes you pathetic. You’re a pathetic lapdog."
The word landed like a bullet.
Ronan shot up from the couch, his height casting a long shadow over his son. His fists were clenched, and his voice was booming now, no longer restrained.
"Pathetic?" He barked. "You call me pathetic, when you’re the one sitting there, whining about being overlooked, while your uncle bleeds and fights for every breath he takes? You call me pathetic, while I’ve broken my body, my soul, and my name, just to keep this family alive?" His voice cracked, the weight of his own words pressing him down. "Pathetic? You wouldn’t last a day in my shoes."
Landon tilted his head, his eyes glinting, as his smirk returned. "Maybe I wouldn’t. But at least I wouldn’t crawl like a dog. At least I wouldn’t sell children for survival and pretend it was a sacrifice."
The silence that followed was deadly.
Ronan’s chest rose and fell violently, his breathing ragged. His knuckles whitened as his fists shook.
Then—crash.
The glass of wine shattered against the marble floor. Red liquid bled across the tiles, spreading like spilled blood.
Ronan blinked. Landon had hurled the glass aside, his chest rising, and his smirk gone. His eyes burned now, furious and wet all at once.
"You think I’m weak, Dad?" Landon snarled. "I’ll show you weak. You’ll see what side I choose when the war comes. And when I do... you’ll regret underestimating me."
Ronan stared at his son. He opened his mouth, but no words came.
He saw not the boy he once cradled. Not the child who used to cling to his leg. What sat before him was a stranger. His son, yes, by blood. But a stranger all the same.
His voice finally came, quiet, raw. "You are my son. And it kills me to say this... but tonight, looking at you, I don’t recognize you anymore."
Landon’s jaw tightened. His hands shook. But he didn’t flinch. He stared back, unblinking.
"Good," he whispered coldly. "Maybe it’s better that way."
The words settled like ash between them.
Ronan turned, his steps heavy, as he walked toward the staircase. Each footfall echoed in the silence, and the weight of his son’s words trailing him like chains.
Behind him, Landon sat in the armchair, his chest heaving, and his eyes burning. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. But he did neither.
Instead, he poured himself another drink with shaking hands.